


made of glass, the way u see through me; u know me better than i do

by kenky



Series: Roleplay Practice [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-15 06:47:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29060016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kenky/pseuds/kenky
Summary: He imagines a flash of a smile behind the red of his wrenched lids; if the Ripper has a mouth, then it’s plump and pink, smirking in satisfaction at the man now hung -- dead. Will shudders at the sight of it (at the Chesapeake Ripper’s smile), grazing his own upturned mouth with the tip of his thumb - /as if he’s just been kissed/.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Series: Roleplay Practice [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2123619
Kudos: 4





	made of glass, the way u see through me; u know me better than i do

**Author's Note:**

> A small warm-up before an RP thread.

From the open boat-yards in Biloxi and Greenville, to the city of New Orleans, young Detective Graham finds himself in a bit of a dilemma: Baltimore's notorious Ripper is on vacation - and apparently enjoying his time in the French Quarter. Will has never been to Maryland before, has never worked on the Ripper’s case as intimately as he would’ve liked to, though he’s read the papers and has heard the stories; after all, any good detective knows all of the greats.

And, well, one could argue that the Chesapeake Ripper is the _best_.

The streets have been cleared out by the local police, taped off on each end. Will's narrowed eyes stare at the figure dismantled in front of him: a man in his forties hanging from the balcony above the Bop Babies strip-club, strung up by his toes. There’s a puddle of blood pooling beneath his head (so dark that it could be mistaken for ink). He's been drained, cleanly cut across his throat; where eyes used to be, are now holes, gouged out by something small - a knife, maybe. No, _something smaller than that_. A plastic spoon from the buffet? Will can't tell right now; soon he’ll be able to, though, once he relaxes. The body has no hands - as in the Ripper (yes, it’s _him_ \- has to be) has sliced them off. Trophies, perhaps; the tell-tale sign that it’s the ripper are the organs missing as well - according to the woman with forensics currently prattling on next to him. Will hardly pays her any mind, what, with his heart transfixed on the artful display laid out for all to see (for all to mock and ridicule).

_For Will to see._

When he finally closes his eyes, it’s to grasp hold of any lingering essence that the Ripper has left behind - to slip into the scales of the monster, and understand the craftsmanship of this particular exhibit. For a moment, he thinks that he has him; that the burning beneath his skin (that isn’t really his skin anymore) is welding the two of them together - to create one, agonized beast. He imagines a flash of a smile behind the red of his wrenched lids; if the Ripper has a mouth, then it’s plump and pink, smirking in satisfaction at the man now hung dead. Will shudders at the sight of it (at the Chesapeake Ripper’s smile), grazing his own with the tip of his thumb - _as if he’s just been kissed_.

"Detective Graham?" It's the woman from before. She pulls him out of his thoughts with a confused voice, drenched in a honey-sweet concern that reminds him of a mother (but not his own). He swallows and blinks up at her, growling under his breath at the interruption (at the separation). When she speaks next, he almost feels guilty.

“I’m so sorry to disturb you, Honey. Oh, shoot - _sorry_. I mean, sir,” she corrects herself, though Will doesn’t mind either way. “Anywho,” she continues, her blonde hair stacked high to the heavens. “I was supposed to tell you to look right over there - at those two, handsome men. That's Agent Jack Crawford and Dr. Hannibal Lecter - from Baltimore. They're here to assist with the Ripper case, you know.”

Sure enough, when Will peers in the general direction of her waving fist, he sees them: two, tall men, held back by a thin layer of yellow tape - and nothing else. Will growls again - who the hell called the FBI? 

"Thank you, um, Mrs....” He bows his head towards her, blushing slightly. The woman just laughs in response, as if Will’s inability to care about the people around him is charming, rather than outright rude. 

“Call me Dixie! Hell, half of Louisiana does.” 

“Right." A short pause, then, "I’ll be just a moment.” 

Will awkwardly darts away to go handle the two men from the FBI, striding across the pavement with his jaw drawn tight. This is just what he needs, someone trying to pry the Ripper from his bare hands. It’s not going to happen. What he felt just now, that connection - Will is going to be the one to catch him. Call it intuition, or whatever the hell you want; the Ripper is _his_. 

He doesn’t make eye-contact when he arrives; he finds that it’s entirely impossible (too intimidating), especially when the one with the dark, eerie eyes and the sharp cheekbones keeps glancing at him. So instead, he stares at a building in the spaces between them, grinding his teeth to dust.

Abrupt and to the point, he spits out a terse: "I didn’t have anybody contact the FBI.”


End file.
